


Not Quite Nabokov

by airspaniel



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Age Play, Community: kink_bingo, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:58:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years of Elle Bishop's life.  A certain common denominator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Nabokov

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [Kink Bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/98847.html). Prompt: age play.

_  
**1991**   
_

Elle Bishop has been nine years old for four whole days. It’s hard to tell, though, since she’s had this needle in her arm the whole time and it makes her feel funny. Slower, somehow. But her daddy told her it would help her feel better, and she trusts him.

She doesn’t like it, though.

Every day a woman in white clothes comes in and brings her food, changes the little bag attached to her needle. Her name is Justine, and Elle doesn’t like her, either.

She doesn’t like anybody anymore.

Until one day a man comes into her room. He’s tall and he’s got a lot more hair than her daddy does, thick and dark and kind of silvery. He smiles at her, and she smiles back without even thinking about it.

“Hello, Elle,” he says, crossing over to her bed and sitting down right next to her. He’s warm, she can feel it even through her clothes, through his clothes. It feels nice.

“Hi,” she says back. “What’s your name?”

He smiles again, and puts his hand on her knee. “You can call me Mister Thompson. I’m a friend of your father’s. We work together.” He leans in then, like he’s telling her a secret. “And you are a very special little girl.”

Elle blushes, just a little bit. “That’s what Daddy says. But then sometimes he gets really mad, because sometimes I do stuff that hurts people, and I can’t help it, and that’s why I’m here.” She leans in, too, looks up at him and wow, he really is tall.

“I don’t like it here.”

He cocks his head like he’s listening; like he’s concerned, almost. “What do you like, Elle?”

She looks down at his hand, still on her leg. Looks at her hands, folded in her lap, so small next to his. _You_ , she wants to say, though she doesn’t know why. She just met him.

“Unicorns,” she answers, after a long and considering pause. “And kittens, even though Daddy said I can’t have any pets because I’ll hurt them.”

Thompson chuckles, and it makes her feel weirdly shy, but also kind of happy. “Well, all right,” he says, patting her knee as he stands up to leave. He opens the door again and the light in the hallway makes him all shadowy.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Elle. Be seeing you.”

\-----

She doesn’t see him again, and things get a lot worse. Every day Justine takes her out and people poke her with more needles and hook her up to machines and make her try and zap things, and she just wants to go home, only she’s got no home to go to. She doesn’t see her daddy, either, and she’s sad and angry and so lonely she doesn’t know what to do.

But one day she comes back to her room, and there’s a toy unicorn on her bed with a note right next to it.

 _His name is Franklin. Take good care of him. - T_

And she does, until a year later when she zaps Justine and accidentally sets him on fire.

 

 _  
**1997**   
_

Elle barely remembers the unicorn, barely remembers anything except for how good it makes her feel when her father says “good job” and “I’m proud of you.” How good it makes her feel to let her power loose. To use it to make people do what she wants.

She doesn’t care who she hurts, and doesn’t remember a time when she did.

But the moment he opens her door, she does remember that dark and silver hair, that smile like he was the only one in on the joke, and maybe he’d share it with her.

And oh, he’s still so tall and strong-looking. She wanted him to stay when she was nine years old, but now… now she knows _why_.

“Hey, Mister Thompson,” she calls out, one hip cocked out to the side as she leans against the wall, back arched just a little to show off her still new breasts.

“Hello, Elle,” he chuckles, and it runs straight down her spine. “My, how you’ve grown.”

“Since you last saw me,” she shoots back, trying for cool indifference. “What’s kept you so long?”

Thompson’s lips twist up at the corner, something wry, something calculating in the expression. “Been busy. But I’ve been keeping an eye on you; on your progress.” He shakes his head, impressed. “You really are an extraordinary talent.”

“Sure,” Elle agrees, shrugging casually. “I’ve got a few things I can do.” She hates herself for it, but she can feel her face flushing.

“More than a few,” he says, stepping in closer to her. “You, Elle, are one of the most powerful people I have ever met. And,” he adds, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. “One of the prettiest.”

Goddamn it, god _damn it_. She’s bright red now and can’t help it. In the space of a second she imagines all kinds of things, things she doesn’t really know about and might never actually do, but that mostly involve his (soft, warm, oh _slightly parted_ ) lips against her skin. He draws back, but keeps her hand in his for just a moment longer; and the second he lets go is a physical ache.

“You…” she starts and has to try again, licking her lips against the sudden dry-mouth she has, damnit. “You staying around this time? ‘Cause you could. Stay, I mean.” Damnit.

He shakes his head just a little. “Sorry, darlin’, but duty calls. I just wanted to look in on you and… see how you were getting along.” He looks into her eyes, and she’s sure he can see everything from the way he smirks at her. “You need anything?”

That sounded like an invitation, but it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. She’s hearing things.

“A ticket outside would be nice,” she says at length. “Maybe a job here with you and my dad. I can help you, y’know.”

Thompson nods, and she knows that was the right answer. “I know you can. And you will, soon enough.” Then he reaches out, puts two fingertips under her chin and tips her face up, and Elle can feel her heart skip a beat. “Till then.”

 

 _  
**1998**   
_

She’s not sure why she started this, not at all sure why he’s _going along with it_ , but when his hand slides over her waist, slips up under her shirt to press hot against her spine, Elle just arches against him. His hands are so _big_ , and she’s never noticed before, not like this.

Thompson chuckles against her neck, and the soft vibration makes her gasp a little, makes little sparks flicker and die on her fingertips.

“I could hurt you,” she says, gasps really, because she’s not used to feeling like this.

He laughs in earnest then. “You could.”

“I’d, oh… I’d like to.” She digs her fingers into his broad shoulders, nips at his earlobe because it seems like the thing to do. “I like hurting people. I think it’s fun,” she whispers, and it’s the closest thing to a confession anyone’s ever gotten from her in the seven years she's been in the Hartsdale facility.

"So do I," Thompson says softly, breath ghosting hot over her cheek as he leans in closer. "That's what makes us so good."

"Oh, _god_ ," she whispers and surges forward, kissing him like she wants to crawl inside his skin; and Thompson just tightens his grip on her waist and takes it, gives it back to her, sharpness and heat just like her lightning. Elle doesn't know how much longer her legs are going to hold out.

"Do you want me to hurt you, Elle?" he asks, between kisses, and his _voice_ … It's low and sweet and dirty and _vicious_ and yes, yes, she wants that. She wants _exactly_ that.

He smiles against her lips and his hands slide down to her ass, one hard squeeze before he's got her thighs, half lifting her already; and she can feel his fingers biting into her flesh, knows she'll have bruises in the shape of them tomorrow.

"You have to be sure, Elle. You have to tell me."

She sucks in a breath, not at all sure that she can say it out loud. Instead, she wraps her hand around one of his wrists, pulls his hand around under her skirt. She's never felt this wet before, and she's not wearing panties, and Thompson makes a soft, surprised noise.

"Is that…" Elle manages, _somehow_ , panting every breath. "That a good enough answer for you?"

Thompson _growls_ and pins her to the wall, one leg wrapped around his waist while the other hangs straight, tiptoe barely touching the floor, but oh… _oh fuck_ , Elle doesn't even notice, can't even _care_ about that, as he shoves a finger roughly inside her. He doesn't stop when she cries out, pleasure and pain and embarrassment all rolled up together; and she can't do anything but writhe against his hold.

He bends his finger, presses hard against _something_ inside, and Elle's head falls back hard against the wall. Then his mouth is on her neck, biting and sucking at her pulse, and she feels like she might pass out from it, from the sheer amount of _wanting_ in her body.

His finger withdraws for a second, and he presses back in with two, and Elle whimpers at the stretch of it. If this is… if this is just his _fingers_ , what's it going to be like when, when… _god_.

“Fuck me,” she says, only it barely comes out; just a scratch of a whine riding her shaking breath. “ _Please_ , Mr. Thompson…”

He grins against her throat, slides the pad of his thumb over her clit as he thrusts his fingers harder, and she’s kind of sobbing with it, choked up and so, so close. “Is that what you want, Elle?” he asks her, voice dark and gravel-rough rumbling over her pulse. “Do you even know what that means?”

“I… _god_ , I _know_ , I know, I promise,” she’s babbling, but her legs are shaking and any second now she’s going to explode, she can feel it; can’t control it.

“Tell me, Elle,” he purrs, holding her up, pressed between his body and the wall. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Elle bites her lip, oh fuck, and she tastes blood but it only makes it better; and she’s touched herself before, of course she has, but it’s _never_ been like this. She arches back, jerks her hips hard against his hand and he’s got her, he’s _right there_ and he’s not stopping, not even when she comes so hard she thinks she might black out.

Maybe she does for a second, because the next thing she knows is she’s shivering, Thompson’s laughter warm against her neck, and his fingers still inside her.

“Oh god,” she sighs, her hands clutching at his shirt, his hair, his arms. And again, “oh, _god_.” There’s a sharp smell of ozone and smoke in the room, and it takes her a long time to realize where it’s coming from - the twin sets of fingerprints singed into the shoulders of Thompson’s shirt.

He just laughs again, like he isn’t bothered at all. Like he _likes_ it. He brushes her hair back over one ear as he leans in again, kisses her cheekbone.

His fingers slip free of her, and she whimpers at the loss. Then he brings them up to his lips, licks his fingertips thoughtfully, and they’re still slick and shiny with… with _her_ , and she can’t even help the noise she makes because it’s the sexiest thing she’s ever seen.

And he notices, of course he does, and kind of half-smiles at her, then slides his wet fingers over her lips. It’s weird, because she’s tasting herself now, but mostly it’s really hot, and she opens her mouth, let him push his fingers into her mouth and all she wants to do is suck on them, no matter _what_ they taste like.

“You didn’t tell me,” Thompson says, a little disapproving, and Elle wraps her tongue around his fingers, sucks harder, wanting to make that tone go away. He chuckles in response, but doesn’t let up. “You thought I’d forget?”

She shakes her head, looking up at him through her eyelashes, hoping it looks as sexy as it feels. The way his eyes go just a shade darker, maybe it does.

“I want you to tell me, Elle. Tell me all the things you want me to do to you. Not,” he adds quickly, curving his fingers deeper into her mouth to keep her from pulling away. “Not right now, no. I want you to think about it. Late at night when you’re alone in your bed, or when you’re frying some bastard who wouldn’t listen to you; when you get so tangled up with power and wanting that you have to touch yourself, have to fuck yourself on your fingers three at a time, wishing they were mine.”

Elle shudders at that, hot and aching for him all over again, and she wants that _now_. But he slides his fingers back over her tongue, past her teeth, past her lips, and pulls away.

“I want you to think about it,” he repeats, easing her back down to the floor, smoothing her skirt back down over her hips. “And when I come back next time? I want you to tell me all about it.”

Then he’s gone, and her hand is up under her skirt, and she’s thinking about it, _oh_ , she’s thinking about it.

 

 _  
**2001**   
_

Elle isn’t really surprised that he didn’t come back. But she’s out in the field now, using her powers, and she knows her father would never have let her do it on his own.

And she’s good. Not just good; she’s the best. She’s getting results like Nakamura never dreamed of, and she loves every single second of it.

She still sleeps in the lockup, in her same little bed she’s had since her ninth birthday. Whatever. She doesn’t fuck at home, and she doesn’t sleep with the people she fucks anyway, so it doesn’t matter.

And now, she’s walking into the offices of Primatech paper. Her first away game. She just has a little bit of unfinished business to attend to.

His office is easy to find, the electronic lock even easier to short circuit. He’s not there, but that’s all right. Even better, in a way. She sits in his desk chair with her feet propped up; stretches her arms up over her head and hooks her wrists over the leather back.

She’s never been good at being patient, but she’s gotten pretty good at lying in wait.

When he finally shows, he’s got his gun drawn. Clever boy noticed the broken lock. He sweeps half the room, then shoulders the door open, and his hands stay steady even though his face falters for just a second; surprise and maybe even admiration tangled up in that lightning-fast look. He lowers the gun.

“Why, Mr. Thompson,” Elle sing-songs, smiling. “Is that a Strayer-Voight Infinity you’re holding, or are you just happy to see me?”

He smirks at her, holstering his weapon. “Always happy to see you, Elle,” he demurs. He’s casual, so casual, but he shuts the door, and her eyes track his fingers as he flips the manual lock.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, nonchalant and nothing like innocent, as he walks around the desk; looming a little into her space. She sits up, eye level with his stomach, and has the sudden urge to wrap her hand around his tie and pull him down to her level.

She’s never been good at resisting an impulse, either, so she does.

“I believe there was something you wanted me to tell you.”


End file.
